Daymare
by Nitlon
Summary: Well, this isn't a very helpful summary, is it? Story formerly known as Night Cycle.
1. Chapter 1

Mae Bellwether is not a happy girl. Well, she is, but only in the sense that she looks like she's smiling most of the time.

The simple fact of the matter is, she's got more problems than just studying for the city wide American History review in a few weeks. Which she probably doesn't need to do anyways.

Oh, no, if her only issue was school, Mae Bellwether would be leaping with joy all over the place, and probably wouldn't wear Wellingtons so very much.

But the simple fact of the matter is that, at least on a weekly basis, she gets almost inevitably sucked into another world and plopped right down in the middle of a serial killer cult, which, I hope you realize, is not really very standard for a seventeen year old. You see, this is Mae's 'outside of school' hobby. Keeping the serial killers busy, that is, so that they quit cementing bones into their walls.

And that was all well and good, you know. At least for a while.

But then the serial killers grew _fond_ of poor little Mae Bellwether, and, well, now she's pretty much been told that not only does she have to keep them from killing people, but she's got to keep them from even _wanting_ to kill people, which is pretty depressing when you look at all the factors.

So that's where we are now. Well, plot-wise, anyway, and I suppose that you're really rather confused, because mostly-third-person-with-a-little-bit-of-second-and-first-narration-present-tense isn't really seen all that often, however, I do believe you'll have to get over that rather quickly if plan to continue reading, as this is about to get rather pretentious.

But in a non-plot-specific way, and if we're looking it geographically as opposed to chronologically, we are in fact in a coffeehouse/nightclub that doesn't serve any alcohol, and tends to make a habit of hiring people very-rarely-to-never, and when it does hire people, outsiders have absolutely no idea why (most often, the majority of the insiders don't know why they or anyone else was hired, either). This coffeehouse/nightclub/stage performance/whatever, in case you were curious, happens to be in Soho. Which is in New York. However, I dearly hope you did know that last bit.

Mae works here. She was hired when she was fifteen (again, may I bring you to the fact that no alcohol is on the premises, so really, it's perfectly legal, if a bit confusing), by her friend Wes, who has a stupid name, but that is because his real name is Wesley, and you can't be called Wesley in Soho, which is a trendy place full of hipsters and other kinds of idiots. Mae's real first name is Mary Alice, and her middle name is Edwards (after her mother's maiden name), and again, no one can be called Mary Alice in Soho, or even Mary, lest anyone think of the virgin and her immaculate conception and feel guilty. And so, Mary Alice is called Mae and her friend Wesley is called Wes, and while Wes is a rather good friend of Mae's, he doesn't really know anything at all about the whole realms-Poppy-Warriors thing, which only really started a few months ago at the most.

This is why Mae Bellwether is not a happy girl. And that social studies test coming up soon, still.

Mae, who is currently on her break, is taking time to slurp down some nice spiced ice tea backstage and worrying about how the lights on the center downstage portion of the platform were flickering a few seconds ago. She is also pondering, as she always does on Tuesdays (Tuesdays are when she visits the Poppy Warriors and leads them on a planned goose chase so that after an hour or two they lose her, and lose the bet and have to let her go. Mae liked that it was Tuesdays, which are generally boring days anyway), where exactly the door she had found four or five months ago actually _came _from, and just why and where she'd received orders to cure all the Poppy Warriors of their homicidal tendencies.

She very-rarely-to-never wonders just how it is that she evades the Poppy Warriors, because they seem to be much faster than she, and older and more experienced than she, and probably smarter than she though she doubted any of them had taken an IQ tests lately. She supposed it was because she was good at jumping and shouting sly remarks at the same time, which Azreal felt obliged to reply to.

Ah. Azreal. Therein lies the problem, for Azreal had just two weeks previous done something completely uncharacteristic, and it was rather frighteningly uncharacteristic at that.

Mae was chased down to a room, surrounded by passageways. This was not her first time in this room, and it would not be her last. She felt her heart,

_Thump. Thump. Thump thump. Thump. Thump thump thump._

increase in beats, wondering wildly if Azreal would make truthful on his promise to catch her and kill her and butcher her like an animal, one of these days. She could not see any of the Warriors yet, no telltale bands of red flowers, no living Harlequin masks, not yet, for they enjoyed playing with her. She was prey. Sophisticated prey, but prey nevertheless, the way a hunter can admire the grace of a doe before guiltlessly embedding lead in its chest and tampering with its fragile life.

She knew they were watching. They were always watching. They'd watch her run down each and every hallway, come to dead ends with dead bodies, and when she finally came to the exit one of them would be waiting for her, and he'd be _laughing_, hard. Laughing at the silly, sophisticated prey that finally got caught in their trap after avoiding them for so long. They'd play with her first, too. This she knew.

This is what happened, though:

The third hallway she came out of, and froze right at the threshold, at least taking pleasure in that down here, the smell of bodies had faded, because she had stalled their inevitable progress for a few months, stopped the killing for a few months, and maybe God would forgive her for playing this sick game because of the lives she'd saved. All of the Warriors, the bulky ones and the lean ones, each heavily muscled, they stood scattered about the cave – she knew it as a cave – each with a similar glint in his eye. Not one of malice, or death or torture, but this: curiosity. And it was a moment before Mae saw why. Azreal, he who knew her and would always know her as not simply poppet but _his_ poppet, he was guarding the entrance to the real exit, down far at the end, in front of the door.

She strode down confidently, perfectly determined to meet her death with sarcasm and to at least make a rude face before she went, clenching and unclenching her fists.

She waited for him to speak first.

However, no words were exchanged; instead, he tilted her chin upwards to better look her in the eyes, and she did not resist because she knew he was too strong and he might break her jaw if he felt the need.

He smiled, a surreptitious thing, kohl-outlined eyes still perfect. He did not have enough of a personality yet to be more than a face, though even Mae, who on most levels despised him, could not help but be fascinated by the lack of flaw in it. Not beautiful or handsome, but…lacking in detail seemed right. His face belied nothing.

He drew one fingernail up the line of her jaw, cutting the skin just barely enough to leave a thin line of blood in its wake. It didn't hurt, or at least, Mae did not cry out. She continued to watch him with morbid fascination.

The smile, for once, disappeared, and to the shock of only Mae and Azreal who were present. He looked utterly serious, contemplative, and – this is the important bit – _conflicted_.

And,

Uncharacteristically,

Azreal, king of the Poppy Warriors who cares for nothing besides the thrill of pain and suffering, who has adopted his name from a thousand Azreals that came before him, who has no soul, stepped aside, wiping his bloody finger on his pants, and allowed Mae to pass through the exit unharmed except for the cut on her jaw bone.

Mae still has a thin, beautiful silver scar from this event. It is the only physical mark she bears from the Poppy Warriors.

It will not be the last.

A/N: I'd like to know if anyone honestly thinks I ought to continue. Who knows, it'll probably end up being a one-shot. I just couldn't get the 'living Harlequin mask' and 'diamond kohl' references out of my head. Oh, er, hello, by the way.


	2. Chapter 2

Tonight, Mae is off of work, which, of course, does not stop her from coming by The Inexpensive Monkey, which, if you do remember, is the not-a-bar that she has worked at for two years.

She surveys the bar patrons, who range from troubled poet-types to the more popular kids from her own school, who, of course, don't even come near recognizing Mae.

She leans, back against the bar, and Wes – who is serving at the moment – comes over to watch what she is watching over her shoulder.

The only common-used term that might describe Wes is pretty boy. Not that he tries to be, really. His hair is dark and relatively straight, reaching down to his neck at the farthest places, even though it's really more feathery. He used to have short hair, but ironically enough, since Wes refuses to pay too much money for a ridiculous Soho haircut, his hair has started to resemble such a style through no fault of his own.

He's got wide, amethyst eyes – amethyst, if you don't know, is purple quartz – which are undoubtedly one of his most striking features, and the rest of his face is thin and pointed. He's got a thin body, and most often he dresses it in old jeans and collared shirts, which for some reason he bothers to button, but never bothers to tuck in.

Wes thinks he is deeply in love with Mae. This is, in all likelihood, not true, and is just a hormone-fueled crush. You see, Wes is the type of guy who is really only happy when he's unhappy. So, he's convinced himself that he's madly, deeply in love with his employee.

This will probably prove to be an issue.

Wes is only a year older than Mae, and technically The Inexpensive Monkey belongs to his uncle, who raised him, but his uncle owns many different bars, and Wes did so well managing this one that when he graduated uncle, Jerry – that's Wes's uncle – decided to allow him to run it for a year before he goes to college.

Wes never pushes his feelings for Mae. He does, occasionally, try to convey them subtly – he's good at subtle.

"You know," Mae sighs, blowing a strand of wavy black hair away from her face with absolutely no grace whatsoever, "I really wish we had a string quartet perform here sometimes. As interesting as 'verbal artists' complaining about their girlfriends is."

Wes laughs softly at this, leaning over on the glass bar, elbows on the surface. He flicks his head to get some of his own hair out of his face.

He can feel the heat that radiate off her cheek, and wonders if she is thinking about the same thing. Like I said previously: hormone-fueled infatuation.

His elbows scoot forward on the glass table, which results in the point of his shoulder brushing the back of hers.

This is okay with Mae.

Not yet wincing from the sting of rejection, he leans his head in so that Mae can feel his warm breath on her cheek.

This is not.

Mae isn't actually sure if she likes Wes that way, or if she likes anyone that way, because she always assumed she'd know if she had a pining for anyone in particular aside from a few fever-induced dreams. Both of which may have included Wes, though they were sketchy in the ways that dreams are.

Shivering, she leans forward again so that she is no longer in such close proximity to Wes, all the while wondering if what she just felt was the sexual curiosity of a teenager. No matter, Mae has decided she won't start dating until she is a mature woman, because her mother has warned her about such matters. Mae and her mother do not see each other very often, because her mother is employed as a ribbon acrobat – you know the type. And the circus she works for is no Barnum and Bailey, either, it has a strange quality that leaves you feeling like you stepped out of Wonderland.

Perhaps this accounts for Mae's strangeness. Perhaps her strangeness is Mae's own creation.

Nevertheless, Mae is simply worried, because it is Monday night, meaning that in less than twenty-four hours she must face Azreal again. Maybe he has suffered too much humiliation from letting her go previously, and now to redeem himself, he must slaughter her without playing their little game.

And if not, what then? How does one go about molding a killer into a citizen? Mae has realized that she will never do away with their violent tendencies – but, perhaps, channel them differently? How, then?

Mae knows only one thing in her own favor: whatever Azreal chooses, his Warriors will follow. This has been established and reestablished in her own view. And she does know that, to some degree, Azreal is confused by her.

Mae currently has far too much on her metaphorical plate.

She spins around on the stool to face Wes, sees his purple eyes accentuated by the soft white light of the wall behind him, which is meant to cast eerie, colored shadows through the glass bottles on the shelves.

The staff door, which leads to a reasonably shady alleyway, is blown open by one of the waiters who has just finished smoking a cigarette. The resultant breeze flutters Wes's shirttails, and once again, Mae is put in mind of some type of fey. He tends to act like one.

"C'mon. Walk you home?" Wes smiles, offering his arm like a gentleman as he flips up a section of the bar and steps out.

"Why, thank you, good Sir Wesley." She loops her arm through his, skin brushing skin where he has rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

Wes shoves open the staff door with his hip, letting Mae go first and following behind her, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"So, how's life as an anonymite?"

"Is that a word?"

"I just like how it sounds. Fine. Recluse."

"Those aren't synonymous." He snorts.

Wes is referring to Mae's non-existent social status and Westerbury High School. Here, she is known as Mary, who is very far from the flamboyant Mae who tends to get up on stage and blast her trumpet to Eleanor Rigby on slow nights.

Mary has always been a quiet girl. If you ask, this is just about the only information you're guaranteed. She is not the type of girl about whom gossip is spread. Everyday at lunch, she will sit at the same table with a book cracked open and held under the tabletop and her hair falling down around her face. Mary never says anything to anyone. That is to say, she does speak, but only when spoken to.

And should you so choose to share your dining area with her during the lunch period, she will not groan or roll her eyes or snort disgustedly at you – if you rely on the stories of the few children who have sat with her once or twice over the span of the year, you will likely discover that she'll be bound to ignore you.

She isn't unfriendly, or at least, you will not hear anything about her being unfriendly. She will gladly and cheerfully chat with you should you initiate a conversation. But always, at lunch, she will sit at a table and read a book.

Mae likes this about herself. She enjoys being Mary and knowing that she harbors so very many secrets.

Mary – or, that is, Mae – laughs, jamming her thumbs through her pant loops.

"Life as an anonymite goes rather well. I believe someone nearly put his book bag on me the other day."

"What were you reading?" Wes knows Mae very well.

"To Say Nothing of the Dog. Connie Willis."

Wes is rather silent.

"Science fiction."

"Ah."

"She's rather famous."

"For a science fiction writer."

"Well…" Mae loses her train of thought rapidly, shakes her head.

Wes comes up behind her, places a hand on her back. She looks up, into his eyes; wide seas of violet. She does think seriously sometimes about the possibility that Wes is a fairy. After all, there are those…_things_ in the river in the realms, and the Poppy Warriors, goodness knows what else. Why not a fairy? She knows that certain things come into this world. Or, at least, material objects. This is how she received requests regarding the Poppy Warriors, wax-sealed letters in neat, black script.

Both she has kept in a drawer, along with an amber necklace from her mother and, oddly enough, dried flowers.

Poppies.

Oddly enough.

Wes hears some rude shouting in the distance, and knows habitually that it is Guillermo, who, if I may be frank, is a sexist bastard whose view of women includes one thing that they are useful for. I shall spare you the specific wording, as I'm sure my implication is more than enough.

He is with his band of friends, who, again, more likely than not have the same views as he.

Do not be fooled by his name, Guillermo is quite American.

"'Ey, it's my buddy Wez! 'Ey there Wez! Lookit that pretty little thing next to you , eh?"

Guillermo, it must be said, is actually quite attractive, in a burly way. Needless to say, if you have already liked Wes so far as his description goes, you likely wouldn't be so very fond of Guillermo.

Wes knows that from here, watching the glossy haired, muscular man half-jog towards them, two things could happen: Guillermo will make a couple of rude remarks and leave, or he'll insist on spending some quality time with Mae.

He decides not to take that chance.

"Work with me here," Wes whispers, backing Mae against a wall. Not bothering to get his hair out of his eyes, and therefore resulting in delicate dark arrows on his forehead, Wes leans in, tilting his head.

When his lips brush hers, Mae becomes immediately tense. She allows the kiss because she knows from Wes's frustrated rants previously the kind of person that Guillermo is, and she'd rather avoid finding out in more detail. But she does not move her mouth with his, selfishly, making him do all the work in order to make it look real.

Still, a good deal of her wants to respond to him. Perhaps she could rationalize it with making the kiss look real. That's what a girlfriend would do, isn't it? Lean up against her partners strong, wiry frame, think about how burning hot his lips are and tangle her hands in his achingly soft hair. She could find an excuse to do that, certainly, but then a part of her would feel like she is giving up on her resolve.

So instead Mae is grows still against Wes, and stays so until Guillermo passes, when she pulls away.

Wes sighs; he knows as much as Mae does, or perhaps more, about her unwillingness with intimate relationships. She will resist, until she won't anymore, and Wes believes firmly that he will be waiting for her the day she does this.

Once again, I use the phrase raging-hormone-fueled infatuation. Not love. Passing infatuation.

But this incident has inspired an entirely different epiphany in Mae. One that may have just solved her Poppy Warrior dilemma. After all, Azreal is a relatively young male, and human by most standards.

Which means that he is, to some degree, an easily distracted idiot.

Well, let's just say that Mae has just realized the potential of the gutter.

A/N: Er, really, it's not as bad as it sounds…just, stick with me here.

Not that it's attracted too many flies previously, but I think I might have just coated the honey with vinegar. Ah well. Let's see how this works out, shall we?

Reviews feed my plot bunnies.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This is absolutely fantastic. This story has the second-worst continuation rate of any story I've ever written, beaten only by Nomadic Goat Herders and the Occasional European with nineteen percent. This one has twenty percent. I love this xD.

Mae cannot sleep well tonight. She runs her fingers through her hair, mussing her sloppy ponytail, watching the shadows created by the headlights of passing cars stretch and compress across her wall. Shapes are accentuated, silhouettes are formed and lost. Mae has little interest in this. She's gone on a bit of a tangent just now. Oh, it started out nice, she was thanking God for all of the wonderful things she'd been given, and hoping He would forgive her for whatever atrocities she will probably commit tomorrow. Now its just escalated into a full-blown rant on how it is completely unfair and ridiculous for these things to be requested of her and then for-

"Absolutely no help to be supplied! I mean, honestly, I have no idea who's giving me these stupid bloody orders, but you would think he or she would have the decency to give me a…tutorial or something."

Mae pauses, and for once fervently hopes that if God exists, He wasn't listening to that last little bit.

"Uh, forgive me for…that. Um, amen."

She coughs. Mae is not very religious, but she'd like to believe in a higher being. It's just a mindset thing.

Mae sighs and hikes the covers up over her body. She will need all her strength tomorrow.

XXX

Mae is still tired the following morning when sunlight rudely and brightly jams its stupid, stupid fingers into her room and pokes her in the eye. She wakes with a languid yawn, rolling over in her bed to hear the paper thunk of one of the books she keeps stacked on the corner of her bed falling to the floor.

Well, no, that's not what it is. But she thinks that's what it is.

In reality, it is a letter. Closed by a wax seal, stamped with one crucial letter.

Mae groans, sitting up on her elbows temporarily before flopping back down. She decides to count to thirty before she has to get up and take a shower and get ready for school.

Thirty comes and thirty goes. Perhaps, instead, she will just take a shower when she gets home and now stay in bed for an extra ten or fifteen minutes.

But no. She can't. Because Mary is always clean and pressed when the time for school comes. Mary always dresses in her little blue or white or grey button-down, collared shirts and has her perfectly straightened hair hanging around her face when she walks into school. Just once, Mae wants to walk into school wearing black jeans and some bright red tunic thing with a belt and just draw attention for the sake of it. And just once she wants to not straighten her hair!

But she insists on keeping her life separate from her school.

She doesn't want any part of the Poppy Warriors to infiltrate what little normality she has left.

Oh, dear reader, little does she know what today has in store for her.

She eliminates a few kinks in her back, finally sliding out of the covers and blinking her eyes, which sting with the pain of consciousness. One of her bare feet lights upon a smooth, flat object that is not the carpet of the small house that belongs to her mother.

Alarmed, Mae opens her eyes fully. When she lifts her foot, the slight sweat it has accumulated from being wrapped tightly in covers all night sticks the paper to her limb.

With some awkward maneuvering, Mae gets the letter off of her foot, staring at the parchment dubiously.

She pries open the folded document, and her pale fingers smudge some of the lettering as she unfolds it.

Strangely, this appears to be written in charcoal. The others – for this is most assuredly a letter in the same grain of the two before it – were written with a fountain pen.

But the handwriting is the same.

_Dearest Mary Alice,_

_ It has come to my attention that my previous request was presumptuous and rude. I apologize. It was ridiculous of me to expect you to take on such a task solely. As such, I will be providing you with aid, which should arrive by today. Good luck to you._

_ Fondest regards,_

_ G._

'G'. That is what they are all signed. Mae wonders idly who this G is. Is it the Bone Tree, struck by lightning so long ago and in such away that there appears to be some type of letter on its charred surface? Perhaps one of the naiads in the river is called by a name beginning with G? Gillian? Gregory? How perplexing. Mae knows of only one G, and she has been dead for nearly thirty years, Gemma Doyle. Poor Mae, poor, confused little girl.

Mae rereads the letter several times, looking for any hints, any hidden meanings. But perhaps the obvious meaning is enough. What help? What form will it take? A book of therapy? A useful weapon? Truly, who knows.

Besides me, that is.

XXX

Mae adjusts her backpack on her shoulders, the headphones of her MP3 player stuck fast in her ears. It is a normal teenaged thing to do, listen to music with headphones. Admittedly, not most teenagers listen to alternative modern jazz and things they've recorded from The Inexpensive Monkey, but no one can hear what Mae is listening to, so that's alright.

As she trots onto the school grounds, the removes the sound plugs from her ears, winding the chord tightly around her player and stuffing it in her pocket.

She offers smiles to students in the hallway, and they are returned. No one looks back at the dark haired girl with the shy smile; they have friends to get to. Mae doesn't mind. Her life is exciting enough as it is.

Perhaps the aid will allow her to be alone with Azreal? Reason with him, plead with him. Let us hope.

She stops at locker 257 like she does everyday, entering her combination and inserting her backpack like she does everyday, and taking out the books and binders for her morning classes like she does everyday.

However, NOT like what happens everyday, she hears her name called out. This has almost never happened in the school.

"Um, Mary? You're Mary, aren't you?" Mary freezes (she thinks of herself as Mary during the day to make things easier).

Clutching her books to her chest, she closes her locker door and turns around. Towards her comes a boy of black hair and bronze skin, who is rather tall, and might be handsome if it weren't for his thin neck and the glasses on his nose. Well, he is rather handsome at that anyways, but in a gawky, unconventional way. His glasses, elliptical black frames, are very clearly thick.

"Yes," Mary answers demurely. She keeps her voice soft and sweet and completely un-Mae-like.

"Oh. Um, I think that you are my…school guide? For the day. It's my first day here."

Mary stiffens. Of all people, they would be unlikely to choose her for such a task, the world has too few coincidences for this to be one.

"Are you sure? I don't remember signing up for it." Her voice is flowing and oh-so-delicate and maidenly.

"I'm not so sure it's a thing you sign up for, I think they assign students at random."

"Oh." Mary must be very careful here. "Well, alright, then. Do you need help getting to your classes?"

"Yeah, if it's not too much trouble." The boy smiles at her, offering a hand awkwardly around his calculus textbook.

"I'm Atul." Mae does not know this, but Atul is an Indian name meaning 'unavoidable'. It will prove rather pertinent.

"Well, you know my name. Mary," she replies, shaking his hand. "May I see your schedule?"

"Yeah! Here." Atul offers Mary his schedule, printed up in blocks on a piece of paper.

Mary is not entirely sure that she likes his eagerness. Hopefully, however, he will make friends by the end of the day, and they will show him his classes instead and Mae – that is, Mary – will slide back into anonymity.

"Oh," she says dejectedly after examining his day. "I see why they paired us together. We have…all the same classes."

Atul blinks, his face blank for a strange second before the delighted smile returns to his face and he lifts up a fist. "Seriously? That's so cool. Pound it." Mary does. Grudgingly.

She is wondering, however, if he is being entirely sincere.

Seeing her face, Atul reacts accordingly. He is not really quite so chipper, you see.

"You don't like that?"

She smiles. "I'm afraid not, no."

The idiot grin is quickly wiped off his face. "Thank goodness. I apologize for trying to conform to the typical adolescent set."

Mary barely refrains from laughing. Mae would laugh, Mae would make conversation with this interesting person. Mary cannot afford it.

She notices something strange about his face, something…simply odd, but she can't quite place it.

"Well, then. Off to AP Calculus."

XXX

In third period biology, Atul rolls up his sleeves, feeling the heat of the day rise upon him. He folds his legs under the lab table, satisfied that he has been placed next to Mary, who does not insist on talking at every available moment, though it must be said she doesn't have much of a personality otherwise. Not to the casual observer, anyways. But Atul is not a casual observer.

He notices, for one thing, that on the jeans she is wearing there is the faded, near-invisible mark of something someone wrote there a while ago. He doesn't know, but it is one of many tic-tac-toe games between Mae and Wes on slow nights. Wes bears these too. Atul also notes how her 'doodles' tend to be her thoughts, written on paper in cryptic foot notes. Her assignment book bears bland notes like 'get new toaster', or (at least to him) much more interesting ones such as 'PW tonight. Wear black.'

Atul and Mary do not know how eerily close their scenario is to one that occurred over one hundred years ago. Or, at least, Mary does not. Atul bears the proof of the story in his very genes.

XXX

Mary is tailed by him for the remainder of the morning, trying hard not to like the boy in any way at all. No. Mary does not have friends. Not real ones.

Because she wants to avoid him, then, she decides to do something rather rare for her. She purposely sits with people.

Everyone knows Mary, and everyone likes her to a certain degree, but not enough to seek her out. She can make funny jokes and she is a good listener. She reacts very well to your stories.

"Hey, guys," she smiles down at some of the kids she knows from her classes.

"Hey Mary. What's up?"

"Can I sit with you today?"

"Sure! We'd love to have you." Andrea scoots over so that Mary has room to sit.

Mary listens to the conversation.

"So, anyways. Ted and I were talking yesterday, and we were thinking about going rock climbing on Saturday down at the rec center. Anybody up for it?"

"Jeez, Danielle, not everybody wants to tag along to everything you do with your boyfriend!"

"Oh, God, my little sister's birthday is coming up and she wants, like, Wedding Barbie. Ugh. Where am I supposed to get Wedding Barbie?" Mary is not paying much attention. She watches Atul.

Atul has taken her place, sitting where she usually sits. Surprisingly, he too has brought a book, and has stuck it under the table while he eats his yogurt and tater tots, occasionally pushing his glasses back up his nose with one finger. Really, he is rather handsome from this angle. At least, Mae thinks so.

"Mary? Hel-lo? Mary? What are you looking at?" Andrea waves a hand in front of her face.

Mary snaps back to attention. "Huh? I dunno, the new kid I guess."

"Who, the Indian guy? He doesn't even have an accent."

"I know!" adds someone else. "But God is he geeky. You can't even tell what color his eyes are through those glasses!" Danielle laughs.

Andrea does too, as does just about everyone in hearing range.

Mary does not laugh.

"Green," she whispers quietly.

"His eyes are green."

But the conversation has moved on to a different topic.

A/N: Er. I might change the summary again. Oh well. I'd love anybody's thoughts. (And by anybody, I mean jeez, man, just hit the review button. You'll feel better about yourself!)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: If you've heard of the band Beirut you get a cookie or a hug. Your choice.

"Well," ventured Mary. "How did you like your first day of school?" Her voice is to others what a silver stream is to a black sea. Mary has come to a happy resolution. Screw not talking, she has chosen instead to portray herself as the most dull, uninteresting person as possible with few to no secrets whatsoever.

Atul is not fooled in the least. He finds Mary very annoying, because clearly she has portrayed none of her personality yet.

Mae's mind is elsewhere. Mae's mind has already traveled to what she anticipates today. Her plan revolves around Azreal. And Azreal, as we all very well know, is not the most stable of individuals.

What Mae doesn't know is that Azreal is already unsure if he wants to kill her. She thinks that he is already sure of this, and that he has only to decide _when _to kill her. Mae doesn't like thinking about this, but she will have to in a matter of hours.

"Oh, it was very interesting." He lies. Atul knew everything that was taught already.

"Yes? And how did you like the teachers?"

"Well, they certainly are fond of homework." Atul eyes his backpack with distaste.

Mary laughs quietly, hiking her own messenger bag up over her shoulder. Actually, at the moment, the way that her hair skirts her shoulders and the light flirts with her face, she resembles her true self. Atul himself suspects this.

Atul was born on the edge of a cliff.

Not literally, of course, because that would have been very difficult, but his life has always teetered between the real and the surreal, daylight and fog, walking and gliding.

With a final, inconspicuous glance into his crystal green eyes, Mary begins to walk towards her home. Truth be told, and I do always tell the truth, dear reader, however vague it may be, she is normally picked up by Wes on his bike fifteen minutes after school ends (so that no one may see plain Mary of the simple brown eyes slide her arms around the waist of an attractive, exciting boy of her own age). This day, however, she does not want to be the one that waves as Atul disappears in his car or with his friends.

"Wait." Mary's heart jumps, she hears his footsteps behind her.

"You walk home?"

"Yes," she whispers. She stares, from her meager height, up at his head, formidably _up there_ as far as heads go relative to the ground.

She stares at a spot right on his forehead. She does not want to look into his eyes, because undoubtedly through those Coke-bottle thick glasses she will get sucked in.

Mae herself has two differently colored eyes. One, on the left, is such a deep, rich dark brown that it is almost black, and the other is hazel or gold depending on what clothing she's wearing (for you see, eye color doesn't change. Our perception of it does.). She is always having to suffer comments for this.

'Did you know you have two different colored eyes?'

'No, I didn't, thanks for the update.'

'Like…why?'

'Oh, I poured acid on one of them as a child/I can't see out of one/one is made of glass.'

'Really?'

'…_no_. It's called an incompletely dominant allele.'

'So do you see different out of them?'

'Yep, everything out of my left is darker.'

'Really?'

'What do you think?'

Each of these questions, and each of these responses, have been excreted into the air countless times since Mae was old enough to have a basic grasp of the English language.

You may think that having eyes of different colors is cliché, but firstly allow me to remind you that it is really just two different shades of brown. Secondly, and, of course, much more importantly: you must remember, dear reader, that I am only the messenger. I can tell you only the truth, as we have already established, and the truth here (which, luckily, is simple) is that Mae has eyes of two different colors, and that those who notice it ask incredibly pointless questions that they already know the answers to.

In these walls, dear reader. In these walls, truth is all that we have left. Truth and bones.

"That's an awfully long way to walk."

Mary wonders briefly how he knows just how far away she lives. That isn't something that a virtual stranger should know.

"Well, I get by."

"Can I offer you a ride home?"

"You don't even know where I live," she whispers, though knowing that it wasn't really a question.

"Where do you live?"

She purses her lips. "Just…just off the highway."

Atul thanks the Lord above that he lives close by and can say so.

"Why, me too. Come on. Really, it's absolutely no trouble at all." He eyes her very carefully, sees indecision perched on the pink arch of her lips. He knows as well as she does as well as I do as well as you do that it is not a request, it is a challenge.

And she has no choice but to accept.

So begins the careful dance between high school outcast buddies and people with massive secrets, each afraid that the other will know too much. Fear will always play in the light of the center stage, flickering like a foggy mist out onto the crowd.

"Well, I suppose…"

XXX

Atul drives a tin can on wheels. Once again, I am not being literal. Please take note of this in the future.

His particular brand of tin can stopped being produced in the early 90s, meaning that Atul -

-who is the grandson of Gemma and Kartik, and honestly, you'd better have figured that out already-

- has quite a bit of trouble procuring new parts for it.

On the ride back, on which I will not go into detail because, frankly, we have some more things to get to, Atul and Mae let their inhibitions somewhat down. They speak about school, and Mae goes on a bit of a rant about the her science project, as she is not the most doting of all people when it comes to cyanobacteria.

Sooner than either of them have expected, Atul pulls up right next to Mae's house.

"Thank you,"

"My pleasure. Would you like the same arrangement for tomorrow?"

"Oh, no, I have a friend that usually picks me up."

Mae curls her hand around the handle of her backpack, her fingertips resting lightly on the door.

"Ah. Well, then. I will see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, I expect you will." She steps out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder and regarding the long, winding walkway that leads up to her house, atop the hill. Her mother inherited quite a sum of money from her late father, and stays in the circus because, for one, she loves it, and for two, she feels that it is always good to have a steady income instead of a set amount.

Atul, who is not nearly as defiant of friendship as his grandfather was (or possibly is, I swore to never lie, it does not mean I'm obligated to tell the whole truth), has no misgivings about his friendly demeanor. He silently appreciates Mae in the way that you would expect him to.

"Oh, and good luck tonight."

Mae freezes.

Perhaps, I say, he could learn from his ancestor's silence.

She turns her head over her shoulder. Unwittingly, she looks extremely mysterious now, her dark hair obscuring half of her face, only her gold eye showing.

"Why, whatever with?" Her voice would make honey feel bitter.

He smiles back, just as sticky sweet. "Your science project, of course. Why, what else could it be?"

Her eyes are as hard as a yellow diamond.

"Yes. Yes, of course. I don't know what I thought you meant."

XXX

After a call to Wes to apologize for not being there when he showed up – Wes looks forward, everyday, to having so many excuses to be close to her. He finds her arms around his waist as they rode down a highway an extremely exciting prospect.

Mae usually enjoys it too. For slightly different reasons.

But now she must steal herself for what you, my dear reader, must have been looking forward to. Oh, yes, because it isn't _your_ life that is in danger, and you would rather see the plot plod along like a good little story.

But imagine for a minute, just a minute dear reader, that it is _you _who is about to go and face your almost-certain death.

Are you happy?

Well, neither is poor Mae.

Her stomach churns in odd ways, as if there are elves rearranging her organs, and briefly Mae wonders why such a reaction is merited in the human body. It doesn't seem to be helping her much at all.

Shrugging off her shirt to leave only a white tank top (Mary always wears underclothes for decency's sake), she searches for something that might be considered pertinent to wear. She considers wearing green and black and brown, colors that would blend in well, but she has in the past learned that avoidance often does not work with the Poppy Warriors. No, instead, she opts for horizontal black-and-white stripes, because Mae is into extremes, and black jeans.

Feeling a bit like a mime, and a lot like a prude, Mae does not wait for the familiar sucking feeling that will inevitably tug her towards the door. Instead she tucks her hair behind her ears, straightens her back, and sets off for the rock outcropping near her house.

XXX

"Halt! You shall not pass!" Mae halts.

The voice is that of a man, British by the sound of it, though she has never heard it before in the times she's been here.

Mae has 'landed' strangely off-base; instead of across the river and staring at the castle that truly does look beautiful until you see it up close, she is in a stone courtyard. The only apparent exit is through two iron gates, with are flanked by weeds as high as trees.

"I bet I shall," she calls back, her voice echoing off the walls. She cannot see far beyond the gate, only white mist.

A creature trots onto the stones, which (though Mae cannot realize it) are arranged in a circle. It is not an animal to which you can compare an earthen animal. Perhaps, if forced, it would be like a cat. But it is more doll-like in its construction; with a too-thin waist and feet that taper off into stilt-like apparitions as opposed to paws, and it has wings of a sort. They sprout off of the creature's shoulder blades, and are really more like solid sticks with feathers bursting from them in a line. Its face is even more bizarre, looking like it is made up of bits of glass and metal, the metal reflecting the sunlight and the glass refracting the shining metal, only the vague triangular suggestion of a cat's head. Its eyes shimmer like underwater green, and its mouth is almost as if someone took a human's and placed it on top of the creature's head, so perfect are the lips.

It is a sphinx, one of the last left alive.

"Riddle."

"Riddle?"

"Answer my riddle, and you may pass. If not, then I'll devour you, bones and all!" The sphinx does have a confirmed English accent, and sounds rather delighted at the latter prospect.

"Well?"

The sphinx smiles, and its teeth shine white.

"What is as light as a feather, yet no man can hold it for long?"

Mae pauses. Her lips move, as if formulating the answer.

"Martha's reins! She's a show pony." Before she was old enough to care for herself, Mae lived with her mother with the circus.

"No, the answer is: breath!" The sphinx looks ecstatic that she got it wrong.

"No, no, I think you'll find it's Martha's reins. They're designed to be light, but none of the men want to lead her because they don't feel manly with a tiny pony."

The sphinx pauses, takes a step back with one stilt-like leg, clacking on the cobblestones.

"My turn," Mae says, taking a step forward.

"Uh," she deadpans, taking inspiration from elsewhere. "A bell rings, a man screams, a man dies. What happened?"

"Um," The sphinx pauses, looking down at the ground thoughtfully.

"Do you give up?"

"No, no, let me think." It sits down on the ground, its feathers fluttering.

"Okay then," Mae smiles, inching towards the gates. "You just sit there…and have a really good think."

Finally, she skirts around it, and is happy to see the castle up ahead.

She'll almost be glad to get to wear she's going, at least Azreal never threatened to _devour_ her before.

Beneath her Wellingtons, peat moss leaks moisture, squelching unappetizingly under her boots, and the great stone mansion looms larger. She feels her hair frizz in the fog, caring very little; as she approaches she sees the lookout perched on the turret and catches his gaze.

He flares his nostrils, appreciating the scent of someone who is not decaying. This lookout's name is Baceo, and he hasn't much in the way of individual thought. He is a model sheep.

Mae sends him a death glare that would make a snake cower; he hisses his discomfort and disappears into the walls.

The building is as she remembers it; no longer bothering to fool her, it stands there in all of its hideous, horrifying glory, the stones once majestic now crumbling under their own weight, under the guilt that they bear from the dozens slaughtered.

Mae's heart jumps into her throat as she walks around, over to the side, scrambles up the uneven stones which provide convenient foot holes up to the high-arched window above.

When she reaches it, she looks down upon the men scattered below; seeing all and searching for one.

Each one of them ripples with muscles, whether they be beefy or sinewy, and a choice few have the perfect medium seen all too often in underwear commercials.

They all turn to attention when she lights upon the windowsill, as if waiting for her which they very well could have been, black diamond eyes trained.

Mae waits.

Carefully, she leaps down, landing squarely on her feet and causing a minor dust explosion.

When it clears, she gazes at each individual. They all have the same brand: hair remaining in only one nearly flat strip on top of the head, a band of red flowers around the arm trailing black threads (a tattoo, merely). Each has a blank look in the eyes, which sparks hope in Mae, for those who do not know why they do something can be swayed to do otherwise.

But she is most concerned with the one closest to her, the man whose eyes are as blue as ocean mist and just as hard to see through. Azreal is the only one who is not smirking with pleasure, he is smiling – though it is a forced smile. He does not want to look forward to her visits for any other reason than engaging in their game of cat and mouse, to end the agreement that they will kill no others until she herself if killed. But he does.

He hates being fascinated by a person.

Oh, dear reader, poor Azreal has unwittingly fallen into a trap of his own making.

"'Allo, poppet," he whispers, taking a step towards her. She doesn't flinch.

"The odds have changed," she replies simply.

"And how is that?"

Mae just smiles at him.

She takes one step back; he takes one forward. None of the others move.

"You'd like to know?"

"That I would, poppet." She takes another step back, he takes another step forward.

She reaches out, curls her hand around his chin to force him to look down at her.

She leans in, and he watches her with mild fascination, allowing his head to be tilted, their faces brought closer together.

"We're playing outside today."

With that, she speeds off out the castle doors.

A/N: Thankies to hibiscusqt, who beta-ed (sort of? I don't know what you call random file exchanging). Aaaand, Nitlon, OUT.

Oh, wait, reviews feed my plot bunnies, and no that is not a threat. It's pretty obvious I don't write for attention...

I hope.

Okay, how about this: I don't write for attention.

But it shooah is nice.


	5. Chapter 5

The forest outside the castle of the Poppy Warriors is unlike a forest you have seen. For one rather important detail, it isn't even green. It barely has trees.

Which isn't to say that it has very few trees, far from it, the tangle of foliage is so thick as to prevent you from seeing more than a few feet.

But it is black.

The trees, they are carved as if from ebony, coming to points. Fruition, at the best of times, produces fruits as perfectly round and shining as a crystal ball, the claws of the branches can caress you or rip you to shreds as they see fit. And they do change their minds.

In this land of black and shadows, the water is white; it glows. Not in a radioactive way, but it is pearlescent, the most crystalline and pure white, the vapor that rises from it sparkles like faerie dust.

If anything lives in these hauntingly beautiful pools, it stays well hidden.

Mae kicks off her boots, leaving them lying in the ground beside her, not bothering to consider the condition her feet will be in soon. She doesn't plan on being on the ground much, anyway.

She comes to the first row of trees, a strong bunch, but weathered by time and rain to rough old things; perfect. Mae needs many footholds to get up initially.

She approaches one, grappling for handholds; grasping the stump of a branch with her right hand, a crevasse with her left. Despite the dull pain of the coarse objects, she continues to scrabble upwards, shimmying up the tree gracelessly until she reaches a branch nearly fifteen feet off the ground, a thick one nearly as thick as her own waist. Her arms shaking, she pulls herself onto this, hearing footsteps below.

"Oh, we're being clever today, hm, poppet?"

Fight or flight is spurred, she stands on the branch, eyeing the next one a few feet closer into the forest. She knows where she is going.

"Thought we'd go outside? Give me a run for my skills?"

"Why, Azreal, don't flatter yourself!" In a manner not unlike that of a squirrel, she takes a flying leap to the next branch, landing with a near silent thud on it, her hair tickling the back of her neck.

Azreal, on the ground, snaps his eyes up to catch a glimpse of her striped shirt as she moves further into the forest as if on a web, hovering near the treetops.

He continues on foot, his movements erratic:

Step…step….stepstepstepstepstepstepstep stop. Step…stepstepstep…step.

"Well, my dear, you make it entirely too easy."

"Oh, really? Do tell."

Azreal just laughs, following the sound of her voice. The poppies on his arm shift, growing and shrinking, blooming and dying, as his emotions fluctuate. Tattoo, in this case, means a mark that he has had since before he can remember. There is something that you could benefit from knowing about Azreal, or at the very least, your opinion of him may soften. He knows not what he does. Killing is to Azreal as breathing is to you, or narration is to me.

Mae continues to head for the river that she knows she will inevitably come across, the one as wide as the Thames and an infinite amount more dangerous. Her foot slips on the outstretched limb of one of the plants, and she just barely manages to catch herself; her hands grabbing in front of her, the other foot crouched inwards, she looks to be performing a balancing act. In a sense, she is.

She reclaims her leg, and as she does she sees Azreal pass by directly underneath her, his forehead and the pointed outline of his chin the only thing visible. Her heart is in her mouth, and Mae cannot help but wonder at his curious, desperate stride. A part of her is hideously fascinated by this creature.

Azreal looks up, just as Mae moves on to the next tree, and hisses in frustration as he sees the leaves rustle, the muscles of his torso tensing and releasing.

"It was a silly choice to make, poppet. You can't stay up there forever."

"But I can move where you cannot." Her voice rapidly fades, she is moving off towards the distance, off to her eventual goal. This plan she has mapped, and it has been gestating; only just now did she decide to put it into action.

"Oh, is that so?" He zooms forward, becoming a blur and freezing, his eyes narrowed to show only black, the diamonds of his lids zeroing in wherever she may be above him.

He hears a rustle, a laughter like autumn, just ahead of him; he rushes towards it, not thinking of what he will do if he catches her.

He stops just in time.

Water, as eerily pearlescent and twinkling as I had promised you, my dear, laps at the edges of a beach covered in sand as dark and fine as powdered obsidian.

Did I forget to mention the acidic potency of this ghostly water? One touch; that is all it takes for the sizzling, burning scent of flesh permeates the air. One touch, all that separates you and death if you stand where Azreal is now. This is not the water of the nymphs, that the Gorgon slowly travels up and down.

Mae is on the other side of this river of doom. A branch, far too high up for anyone to reach, is what stretches across the river, that served as her bridge. The tree it is attached to is so achingly smooth and uninterrupted, it would not be possible to climb it. Which is why Mae climbed her first tree so early on. Azreal has no hope of reaching her now, unless he goes all the way back and then returns, giving Mae ample time to escape.

Now, he simply watches her, a smile growing on his face.

"Clever, love. Very clever."

Mae smiles, sitting down in the black grass, crossing her legs in front of her. White mist rises from the ghost water, adding to her ethereal appearance.

Snorting his frustration, Azreal paces, his footfalls leaving little valleys and hills on the beach.

"Azreal?"

His eyes meet hers, and she tries not to shiver at their crystal blue clarity.

"Yes?" Strange for him to be so compliant.

"What is important to you?" Her voice is lifted, lilted, magical as it floats the distance between them, hanging in the air like ice.

"Nothing," he replies simply, his eyes never leaving hers, giving her cause to shiver involuntarily.

"Nothing? Not your castle, your men?"

"They are thick beasts. I do not care for them."

"Yourself?"

"I have done nothing to deserve even my own appreciation."

Mae feels a lump form in her throat, the seed of pity begin to sprout deep somewhere inside her.

"What about what you do? The people you kill?"

"Killing is not important to me." His voice is as smooth as a mirror, his eyes glassy.

She smiles. Good news. "Oh? Am I important to you?"

It is meant as a joke. But Azreal hesitates. His eyes, for an undeniable second, are rimmed in doubt, his voice threatens to choke out a horrible sound from his heart.

"No," he replies firmly and simply.

Mae is taken aback. And for good reason; how does one react to such a response? He did not hesitate before, not even for himself.

But he smiles for her. "Come now, you can't stay there forever! However will you return home?"

"Oh, I shall find a way. Unless you are willing to let me pass by you."

Azreal grins at her wolfishly.

"How fast can you run?"

XXX

After Mae inches her way back, she slides down the tree with a ker-flop, safe in the knowledge that the game is over for today.

Azreal flinches, fighting the strange urge to help her up, and instead watches as she rises on her own, all the while keeping her gaze trained on him. Her legs wobble underneath her; he doesn't move.

They continue their staring match as she walks forward, just past him; he grabs her arm, staying her. He exerts no force, if she wishes, she could wrench her appendage from his grasp.

She wonders at the blissfully cool temperature of his skin, like the water that condenses on cold objects. His mind is blank.

He thinks, briefly, of leaning in and kissing her. But girls have never liked when he did things like that.

No, why would he care how she felt about it? The silly girl never did anything for him. But does he want her mad at him.

Does he?

She doesn't give him time to decide. Thoughtlessly, Mae appeals to the lover in the fighter.

Though it disgusts her – or it should disgust her, at least more thoroughly, she thinks – she leans in and presses her lips to his for the briefest of moments before dashing away.

She forgets to reclaim her boots. Azreal will find them later.

XXX

At school, the next day, Mary walks tenderly; her feet are sore and cracked still. The trees wreaked havoc on her soles.

"Hey," Atul takes a few long-legged strides towards her, concern etched on his brow.

"Oh, hello," Mary sees him just as she is about to enter her third period classroom, walking slowly and carefully, trying not to reopen the wounds she has so carefully patched.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," she winces as she eases into her assigned seat for English. She supports herself on the table with her hands, but it causes her books to slip.

With a groan, she begins to get up again, feeling every muscle in her body file formal complaints.

"Here, let me," Atul offers, leaning down and easily scooping up her materials. She smiles wanly at him.

He returns it, sitting down next to her.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, my feet…"

"Yes?"

"They're a bit sore."

"More than a bit, from my view. If I didn't know better, I'd say you did walk home yesterday."

Mae laughs at this, and awards him a sincere smile.

Unbeknownst to the both of them, people are noticing. They can hear them. It is strange for Mary to talk to anyone, let alone to smile sincerely. How interesting this new boy must be!

"So," Mary turns to him, just before class begins. "I'm assuming you are the help promised to be sent to me?" she whispers.

Atul just winks at Mae and pats her hand.

XXX

At the end of the day, Wes is waiting outside on his bike. His motorbike, you know. It's not that he wants to look cool, it's that sometimes he has to travel long distances and he can't afford even a used car, so settled for a used motorcycle.

That doesn't diminish the immediate intrigue of the kids emerging from the school.

Nonchalantly, and acting like he has every right to pick his friend up as early as he wants, he takes out the small novel in his pocket and continues to read.

He's quite a sight. The boy is the human personification of anime, if a bit more masculine, with his amethyst eyes and his pointy, dark hair. His black bomber jacket hangs loosely on his shoulders, the pale skin of his neck exposed as he leans over the handles of the sleek, dark bike parked by the side of the road.

"Um," a girl, a senior, approaches him. She is undeniably pretty, a flop of blond hair falling in front of her face, the rest of it up in a ponytail. A plain blue sweatshirt is zipped up over her torso, and over her legs is only a too-short jean skirt.

"If you're waiting for Andrea, she's supposed to be out in a few minutes, that's what she said."

Wes, frankly surprised that anyone is talking to him, looks up, shutting the book with the one hand he was holding it with.

He smiles at the girl, whose name is Dani, which causes her breath to catch in her throat.

_Oh, my gosh, Andrea's older boyfriend is actually smiling at me. Oh, my gosh._

Dani, who isn't really as dumb as she clearly seems, is just flustered by the lovely boy in front of her.

"Who's Andrea? Do I know her?"

Dani falters. Alright, so she's just officially talking to a stranger for no reason.

Wes deserves this encounter. He has showed to pick Mae up at a time when people are certain to notice, because he is sick of his friend's silly and pointless anonymity, especially when she has so many talents (and a beautiful singing voice). He has decided to make a scene.

"Uh, I just thought – I mean, she acted…like…um, who are you here for?"

He smiles at her again, wider this time, and Dani's heart palpitations are almost tangible.

"My friend, Mae. If you see her, won't you tell her I'm looking for her?"

"We don't have a Mae."

Wes pauses. "Oh, I'm sorry, I call her Mae. Her name is Mary."

Oh, dear reader, we have just witnessed proof of karma. Sweet, sweet friggin' karma!

I apologize for that outburst.

Dani falters. "Mary? Are you sure?"

Wes holds back a laugh. He is not full of himself, but he can recognize the signs of infatuation as well as anyone else.

"Oh, yes," he decides to act on his apparent good looks. "About yea high, dark hair, different colored eyes, absolutely gorgeous."

Dani is just on the side of outright fainting. _Let's see…hot guy plus motorcycle plus high school equals Mary the practically nonexistent? I don't think so. What? No, no, he must mean a different Mary. Like a freshman or something. Ew! That would make him like a pedophile!_

"She _is_ a senior. Are you sure you don't know anyone named Mary?"

"Um," Dani tries desperately to form words. "I have to go."

Wes just laughs and shakes his head, turning back to his book, aware of the plethora of stares that both he and his bike are receiving.

Meanwhile, Atul and Mary emerge (Mary at a breathtakingly slow pace), talking quietly. Gossip is all well and good, but when the subjects are both practically nobodies, the rumors of Atul and Mary have died out.

Neither is smiling in a particularly noticeable way. It is important to note, however, that Mary is in fact _talking_ to him. Mae, this entire day, had been thinking about what she did.

What she did, dear reader, being kiss a monster. And she is reasonably certain that he kissed her back. She feels horrid. She is scared that it won't even work, that he'll still want to kill her, and she's done a disgusting thing for no reason. But what truly frightens her, my dear, is that for a moment she forgot her surroundings, and found herself (just the slightest bit, and not very notably) attracted to the monster.

Mae despises relationships in general, mainly because her mother had warned her so. And she is completely, utterly horrified that she should willingly kiss – of _all people_ – Azreal, whom she barely even – _doesn't even_ like.

I'm not sure I can convey to you just how simply sad, and lonely, and scared the poor girl is.

"Would you like a ride home? The offer still stands."

Mary, who had just now drifted off into her thoughts of misery, looks back up.

"Oh, no, I'm fine."

She grimaces at the thought of walking far enough until she is sure Atul won't see her get picked up.

Atul frowns, raising his eyebrows as they continue to progress forward.

"Mae!" Mary freezes at the name. Atul and Mary have actually walked rather close to where Wes, in all of his pretty boy glory, is waiting.

Mary just smiles at Atul and keeps going.

"Mae, I know you can hear me." Mary pauses, looks up at Wes, across the street from her.

"I'm sorry, but you must have mistaken me for somebody else. My name is Mary." She gives her old friend a smile.

"Mae, don't be and idiot."

"I'm really sorry, and I bet you're really good friends with this Mae person, but really, I'm not her."

Atul watches this with interest.

Wes rolls his eyes. "You want to walk home with sore feet?"

Mae pauses. Of course. She's known Wes long enough, he recognizes that she rarely wears her slipper-shoes unless she's very tired.

"Mae." Mary sighs, walks over to the other side of the street, towing Atul behind her. Wes and Atul meet eyes, briefly, curiously.

"Just get on the bike."

Mae watches him for a second, contemplating her decisions. She looks up at Atul briefly, sighs, and scoots onto the bike behind her friend, sliding her arms around his waist.

"Mary, are-"

"It's fine, Atul, I know him, it's just…" she looks up at him, and doesn't finish her sentence.

"Ah. Well, then." Utterly ignoring a foreign pang of jealousy – _he's_ supposed to be her friend, her confidant – he heads for his own car.

While Atul was able to let this go, Mae knows from the stares of (no kidding) every one of the students in her grade in the vicinity that this won't die out by tomorrow.

A small part of her revels in it, and Wes knows it.

She sighs again, and leans in, pecking the back of his neck (the most convenient part of him around) with a kiss.

"Thanks."

Wes turns his head around, frowning. "Bad day?"

Mae considers kissing his lips this time, suffering a flashback of the last time they 'kissed' which despite the situation was almost enjoyable, but decides against it.

Answering without words, she clips on her helmet and presses her face into his back.

"Let's just go home."

A/N: You don't leave a review? Well, not only will I be VERY UPSET with you, I will make a face. You wouldn't want that, would you? Seriously, I don't know your thoughts magically. Liked it/didn't like it (and why)/neutral?


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I had a wee bit too much fun with descriptions.

The weather is terrible. Truly, uniquely awful, such that it must be hand-tailored by God above to make Mae Bellwether miserable.

Which is to say, it's impeccably sunny.

Which is to say, not a single cloud in the-

"Azure FRICKIN' blue sky!"

"Okay, Mary Alice and the no-good, awful, nasty, very-bad day."

"No, ya think?"

"Poor Mae." Wes laughs, kicking down the stand of the bike to rest in the driveway of The Inexpensive Monkey, the top floor of which remained his residence. It's a pretty dark place, really. In design. Black furniture with red accents, strange wall-lighting, mostly because it used to be a hip club, and more than likely sold drugs. The club went out of business in the early 90s, really, so it's perfectly fine. Wes has a fear of illegal substances; a dreading, irrational fear based on a melodramatic childhood event which you will likely witness in a grainy flashback at some point, and therefore you needn't worry about him influencing Mae or some such happening.

Mae just sighs and shakes her head, shrugging off her plain collared shirt to reveal a curiously designed tee involving birds and open cages and other sorts of broke-art-grad-student things.

She shuffles up the stairs: broken, sad-eyed creatures of wood blackened by dirt and wear and ruffled by pressure, but still; happy things.

Wes follows eagerly; it is a rare treat that Mae comes into his flat, at least before opening time, and he determines to make the best of cheerfully. Perhaps movie watching, music-playing, music-making, silly jokes, even just studying. He is a great friend to have, and the same cannot be said for our dear heroine, whose appetite for social contact is temperamental, at best. But she finds that when she does require it, she prefers the company of her purple-eyed potential love interest.

The door creaks when it is pushed open, the space beyond filtering in the too-bright sun. A slanted wall is made entirely of windows, the glass panes the size of your palm and outlined in iron as if someone had squeezed it out of a tube, the lines wave and undulate to cover ever fissure and crack and the glass itself is thick and semi-lucid, such that it is wavy and bends the light. When it is raining, the ghosts of the water dance waltzes across the black carpet in grey and blue couples, spinning and whirling and caressing each other.

But today yellow light pokes its fingers into the glass, rudely exploring Wes's house.

_Well_, Mae thinks, _At least he's got curtains._

"Blergh," she tells him as he follows in after her, hanging his coat up on the hook. She comes over, resting her forehead on the point of his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his waist, stifling a yawn as she inhales the comforting scent of something like candle wax and _clean_.

"Really, what happened? Is it that guy you were talking to?" Wes fishes, partly for his own selfish (and jealous) reasons, but mostly because it's the only new thing he knows of in her life.

That he knows of, dear reader, the words key to process.

"Atul? No, he's just the new kid. You know, the nameless kid and the soon-to-be nameless kid, shtickin' it out and all."

"Ha!"

Wes shakes free of her, walking over to the window and tugging on the thick rope that holds the curtains in place, letting the swath of red velvet (yes, really) sweep gracefully to the ground and fly to the other side, temporarily blotting out the entire sun before he switches on the compact fluorescent lamp. It's a clever device, a silver pole with several lights jutting from it at different heights and adjustable angles, very post-modern, and the light bulbs are blue so as to prevent a harsh glow. He bought the lamp at a thrift store. The bulbs seemed like a good idea at the time, standing in a hardware store with Muzak in the background trying to find a suitably clever gift for Mae's birthday.

Regardless, the effect of the post-modern lamp with blue light bulbs is that which would occur if it were raining outside, which is why they both like them.

"Come on, sicky," Wes says, grabbing her hand and dragging her towards his bedroom, which doubles as the computer/TV/movie/whatever room.

"Yeah," Mae replies, rolling her eyes.

"Wow, you are aggressively apathetic today, aren't you?"

"I dunno."

"I'll hit you if you keep acting like this."

Mae snorts. "Yeah, whatever."

In the pseudo-hallway between the main room and Wes's bedroom/computer/TV/movie/whatever room, he stops and stares down at her, frowning, his eyebrows knit together.

He slides his arms around her, holding her a little closer and gazing into her eyes as if they could tell him. The eyes are not the window to the soul, contrary to what poets may have you believe. They just look and sometimes they see.

"Come on, Maeberry, what's wrong?"

_I kissed a monster, that's what's wrong, you dolt. Get with the times._

"I'm just feeling weird."

Wes knows this is not the case, but he also knows that it's the best answer he'll get. That's fine. He has secrets too.

Sure, maybe he's not trying to kindle feelings from a mythical creature slave to his dulled pleasure in killing, but hey, what do you do in your spare time?

Mae shakes her head, sighs. "Sorry, sorry, promise I'll be way much more of an opinionated jerk. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

_Don't let the walls fool you, my dear,_ hisses a voice like steam rising from a burning pan sprayed with water.

"What?" Mae asks as she walks into Wes's bedroom/computer/TV/movie/whatever room, plunking down on his bed, which is too large. It's the one purchase that Wes has made that hasn't been pre-owned, a beast with an black Egyptian cotton comforter and pillows of crimson and purple and obsidian.

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Oh, nah, I just didn't sleep too well last night."

"Tuesday syndrome?"

Mae laughs. "Sure. Call it that."

_Why must you assume the worst? Tut tut, love, such an easy target your flower soldiers make…_

"Poppy Warriors," Mae mumbles inaudibly before she realizes that she has, again, heard the cruel hiss of the unknown voice. It's strange, almost as if its source isn't quite an entity; it is oddly empty. Not of malice, which it has in leaps and bounds, but somehow missing some key element.

"What's that?"

"What?"

"You said 'mop carriers' or something."

She shakes her head. "Just thinking out loud. Nothing."

Wes just smiles, shaking his head so that arrows of dark hair sway across his face interrupting his eyes, turning towards his closet. He sees an old acoustic guitar, the cost of which at a secondhand store was a mere twenty-eight dollars, and pulls the thing out by the neck. He knows how to cheer Mae up.

And thank goodness, dear reader, that this is only written, because he is about to tear some eardrums.

"Wes, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to play you a song!"

"With that thing? What happened to your good axe?"

"Downstairs. Besides, I'm not exactly concerned with quality right now."

"That doesn't bode well."

Well, she's quite right.

Wes grins, sitting down in a beanbag chair of red and white stripes next to the bed, wiggling and shimmying as the thing smooshes under his weight.

"Wes…"

He grins fiendishly at her.

And then proceeds to sing in a manner that can be described only as 'drunken teenager on key':

"Troubled at the office, troubled at the bank!" he croons, playing chords madly.

"I put my hands against the tree, I know it's real but it still feels fake!"

Mae just laughs, and laughs.

"The last thing I remember from that world was a drunk take, clicked out on the tape too slow!"

Now, she is simply puzzled.

"Oh, what a life we give towards obsessions and curled toes and the death line that's runnin' through our friends, as well as foes," his fingers dance over the strings, callused pads practiced in their disorganized insanity..

"And that tree line looks sober like a bending ghost as I go," he takes a breath. "Down this, road of the boring I'm boring!" his voice cracks and Mae giggles a little bit more, a permanent smile beginning.

"No one saw it coming, everyone was shocked.

So I borrow my roommate's helmet and keep a tight grip on my bike lock take the

Side streets keep my eyes clocked! Oh, it

Only takes a second to pass!"

_Oh, but he's making it so much easier for me, love, all of that confused energy for the taking, hm? Kill you or take you, kill you or take you…and the longer you wait…_

Mae resists the urge to cry out a sob.

"I've had some really nice people say some really smart things to me I've had,

Really good people bummed out here in this bed next to me," Wes looks at her, grinning, oblivious to the eminent dark energy in his home.

Mae smiles back at him, appreciating the compliment.

"So I sing my life in circles through these outrages and I have had some,

Really nice people have to tell me goodbye!

So I give a wish to a nickel,

Close my eyes and let it fly and try to stay positive!" With a final few frenzied strums he ends with a laugh, falling back on his seat.

Mae makes a rude face at him and wrenches the guitar out of his grasp.

"You're _insane_!"

"You know you love it!"

"What was that?"

"Share the Road. By Kind of Like Spitting."

"Really? That's the band's name? Kind of Like Spitting?"

Wes regards her seriously for a moment.

"…why would I lie about that?"

She shrugs, trying to ignore the darkness lapping at the edges of her like tides.

_The longer you wait, dear beloved…the longer you wait…_

She shivers.

_The longer I have, dear beloved. The longer I have._

A/N: Bleeh. So, a sort of a nothing of a little chapter, I suppose. I just wrote it for fun, anyways. Now then. Don't make me make a face. Because I'll do it if you don't tell me what you thought about that. I will. Don't doubt my face-making power, sir, madam or other. Don't you dare.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This chapter is part-inspired by the ridiculous amount of adapted Eleanor Rigby music there is out there.

Mae sits on the edge of Wes's bed, shivering. She holds her elbows, staring at the floor; her jaw is visibly quivering and tears threaten her eyes.

_No, no, please no_, she thinks. _Don't hurt anybody, please no, please_.

But she can already tell that it is gone. She isn't even sure if it was there.

But it was there, dear reader. This, you can be sure of.

XXX

"Aw, Wes, no sleepovers," Mae protests as she tries to head out the door, Wes tugging on her arm to prevent her from doing so.

"Yes sleepovers," he counters, grinning, pulling her back into his flat and sliding behind her to close the door. "I was going to sleep on the couch anyways. 'Sides, you look scared half to death."

"So I should go home!"

"So you shouldn't be alone, dummy." Wes laughs and shakes his head, pulling Mae back against him, resting his chin on top of her head.

Ignoring the current situation, or rather, simply trailing off in thought, Mae laughs. "When I was walking out today, I heard some girl call you…I think it was like 'sexier than Brad Cruise' or something."

Wes snorts. "Oh, really? Brad Cruise, you say?"

"I do say. Or rather, she said."

"She said she said."

"Haha, mister Beatles references." Mae smiles and slides away from Wes, whose hands were dangerously close to lighting on her hips, and half strides, half skips over to his computer, bending down over the keyboard.

"Watchya looking for?"

"Same thing I'm always looking for."

Wes grins and comes over to rest his hand on the desk of the monitor. "Eleanor Rigby."

"You know me too well," she says mockingly as she expertly types the name into his iTunes search bar. She receives more results than one would normally expect.

"Whoa."

"What?"

"Dude, you have way too many instrumental versions of this song – ooh! Orchestral version! Sweet!"

"Ha."

Rows of violins and cellos begin the famous tune, adding layer upon familiar, comforting layer to Mae's outer protective shell. Inside, she rather wants to curl into a ball and cry, maybe into someone's shoulder, maybe by herself. She isn't sure which.

The music reaches the point where, if this were the sung version, the lyrics would be the chorus.

_All the lonely people, where do they all come from?_

_ All the lonely people, where do they all belong?_

Mae approaches the curtained window, pulling back the heavy velvet slightly to stare at the relatively not-seedy street beyond. Luck is with her, a slight drizzle coats the glass, not enough to use an umbrella for but enough to make the city blue with mist. The lit parts of her face show in her window reflection, her cheekbone, her eyebrow, the side of her face, less than half of her head, creating pools of darkness around her eyes, lips and nose. I'm sure you know what I'm referencing, you've all seen the effect that darkness has in a window.

Mae runs a hand through her hair, not caring if she musses it.

"It's raining a little," she murmurs, half to herself.

"That's good," Wes murmurs back, surprisingly closer than Mae had thought he was. In fact, he's directly behind her and to the side a bit, his eyes shining amethyst in the reflection of the window.

For a simple moment, Mae wonders at how marvelous the two of them look together.

Wes sees this too, is unable to help himself. Almost of their own accord, Wes places his fingertips just barely on her hips, a light touch though one that sends inexplicable shivers through her, centering in her lower abdomen.

"Wes," she says, a warning tone to her voice as he leans in, tugs on her earlobe with his teeth. She barely contains a tiny gasp. Mae has some strangely sensitive areas on her body, the ears only beat out by, strangely enough, her hands.

"Yes?" he whispers right in her ear, eliciting another shiver. To her, his breath tingles. Her breathing comes slightly harder.

"Um," she begins, trying to remember what her objection to feeling like this ever was as he goes back to his previous activity, placing feather light kisses one after the other in the hollow underneath her earlobe, then down her neck, her shoulder…

"Wes," she says again, pleading, as she pulls out of his grasp awkwardly. She bites her lip, pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Sorry. I know." He smiles remorsefully. "I wish I didn't, but I do." What he means is that he knows she hates things like this. All that 'mushy crud'. She's too thickly armored for a few sultry kisses to undo her like that.

_Kill you or take you_, she thinks. _What did it mean? Take me? How?_

"I – I'm going to go to bed. I'll…I'll see you in the morning."

Luckily, when she rubs her eyes on her way towards the bedroom, Wes assumes it is sleep she is ridding from her face. Not tears.

XXX

With a mildly unattractive sniffle, she falls onto the bed. The rims of her eyes seem to have been injected with red, puffy and pink. She feels as if someone has lit fires behind her eyes, that the fires are attempting to chase all of the water out of the front.

_No, no, no, no, no. Nobody…nobody has to get hurt. Not even Azreal. Don't even hurt him. Or Atul, I swear to God don't you go near him, I swear…I swear to…I swear…_

Another ragged, horrified sound is freed from her body. She flops down on Wes's covers, burying herself in one of the pillows, inhaling his comforting scent and cuddling up to the wall. She tries to shrink into herself, into the wall or the bed. She can't. So she just keeps crying. It's a simple enough tactic. Just keep crying and maybe the tears will chase everything away.

Turtles cry too. Sea turtles, to be specific, cry all the time. But not because of sadness. Sea turtles cry to rid salt from their bodies. I, personally, can speak of no other creature that cries for depression. At least, not an animal.

But Mae is crying because she is afraid, and she is tired, and she is sad, and she is nervous, and she is disgusted with herself.

She feels the damp, cold gust of air from the open window, hears the strangely light blue curtains (which don't match the rest of the room at all) flapping in the wind. Somewhere in the near distance, a crow caws, harsh voice glancing off the rain. She does not look up, it is not something that, for her, is worth pulling herself out of her slump.

She hears something, though, a tap-tap-tap and a scratch-scratch-scratch as something lands on the windowsill.

A raven. An exceptionally large one.

She looks up, wiping her eye with the palm of her hand to stare at the bird. It cocks its head to the side in a truly avian manner, curious.

Mae hiccups as she tries to cease her sobbing. Momentarily, she turns to the pillow and Wes's comforting scent of candle wax and clean to wipe off her face.

When she turns back to the raven, in its stead is Azreal, crouched gracefully on the sill. His hands grip the ledge, the black silhouette of a half-dead tree and the grey sky his only backdrop. His head is still tilted in that birdlike grace, his diamond kohl eyes boring into hers.

He looks at her with no malice. Just curiosity. He notes her red eyes, her puffy cheeks. The way that one sleeve of her t shirt has slipped down a bit farther on her shoulder than it is intended to.

"You're sad," he says, his voice as clear and emotionless as glass, but steeped with confusion. Sad; what a strange emotion.

Mae almost laughs at his ignorance. "Yes," she replies, her voice stuffy as she sniffles again.

Azreal considers this, still poised halfway into the room. He observes her again, the little prize, his little goal, the thing he's been chasing after. But what happens when he catches her?

_Kill you or take you, kill you or take you…_

After a long while, he says simply, "I don't think that I want you to be sad."

Mae freezes. Everything. Her tears freeze, the lump in her throat turns to ice, the stones in her gut freeze. Such simple words. And how does she feel about them? She knows not. Better? No, not better. Maybe better. Worse? Again, possibly. But for different reasons than you might infer. Scared? Almost certainly.

But she realizes with a start that, besides him somehow having managed to come over to this world of his own accord, besides him having managed to find her, she realizes that he has nearly admitted to caring. That he is confused, at least.

And that she doesn't want him to be sad, either.

"Oh," she says. How can this dreaded figure somehow brighten her? Why isn't she frightened? He is here, she is here, they are alone. But she feels perfectly safe. No matter how he got over.

"Why are you sad?"

Mae pauses again. Never, never does he manage to not confuse her.

"What matter is it to you?"

"I would like to know."

_No. No, you can't start to care. You can't start to see him as a person. He's a monster. A horrible creature. He kills._

_ But he doesn't know what he's doing!_

_ Yes, he does! He knows exactly what he's doing when he takes a life!_

_ He's not a monster!_

_ He is! He is, and I can't possibly care about him._

_ But do I really want him to be hurt by whatever was speaking earlier?_

_ Well…well…_

"I'm sad because I am afraid."

He cocks his head in the other direction, impassive. "Of me?"

"No. Not exactly."

"Why not?"

Mae could almost laugh out loud. Indeed, why not? Shouldn't she be?

"I'm not sure. Would you hurt me?"

"I could."

"But would you?"

Now it is Azreal's turn to pause. He looks away from her, focusing on Wes's closet.

"This is not your residence. That bed is not your bed." His topic changes, I say, could use some refinement. Mae lets it slide and counts it as one victory for the 'confused but not a serial killer' column.

"No."

"It belongs to a male."

"Yes."

"Your male?"

Mae nearly laughs until she remembers who she is talking to. "No, not really."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because he is my friend."

"Friend," Azreal clicks the word on his pointed tongue, his head bobbing once. "Friend," he says again, frowning.

Mae wonders why he finds this so hard to grasp.

"Am I your friend?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Mae watches Azreal for a slow minute, the curtains whipping the walls. She watches his eyes. He watches her too.

"Well," she says peacefully, trying to bat down the slight passing whim she has for him to come closer. "I suppose it's mostly because you want to kill me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because friends don't usually try to kill each other."

"No, why do you say I want to kill you?"

"Don't you? You threaten it an awful lot."

"I say that I am going to kill you. Not that I _want_ to."

"There's a difference?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to kill me, too?"

Azreal chooses not to answer, pursing his lips, a smile playing with his mouth. A good question from a silly girl.

"Mae? You okay in there?"

Mae stiffens, craning her head to look at the hallway.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I thought I heard you crying."

"Oh."

"…were you crying?"

"I'm fine now," she calls, rolling off the bed and landing, feet first, on the soft shag carpet to head towards the hallway. Azreal watches her with interest.

"It's not my fault, is it?" Wes appears from the bathroom, a toothbrush in his hand, wearing only sleep pants. Mae tries hard not to blush at the sight of him, it's not as if she's never seen him without a shirt before.

Of course, she certainly thinks of him differently now. And they are alone. In his flat.

With the exception of Azreal, you know.

"No, no, it's fine. Seriously."

"Oh, well alright. I'll give you a ride to school tomorrow, okay? You can just borrow one of my shirts or something."

"Sounds like a plan."

Wes knows that whatever is wrong is not something she wants to talk about. He understands.

He really is a very good friend.

He closes the door to the main room, leaving Mae alone to deal with her charge.

When she turns back to the bed, she sees that Azreal has situated himself on it, his legs crossed.

She approaches him, not fully knowing what she is doing, almost as if it is an imperative. As if she will regret not going to him rather than the consequences of approaching him.

He smiles as she grows nearer, finally stopping at the edge of the bed, mere inches away.

"Will it make you feel better to know that I am sad too?"

"Why are you sad, Azreal?"

His eyes sparkle, his head is cocked to the side in his ever-avian manner, the flowers on his arm growing wider. Mae is drawn to the bright red poppies, inexplicably and yet with so much reason.

"Perhaps I am sad because you are sad."

"Is that so?"

A grin twitches the corner of his mouth as he reaches up a hand, nearly touching her. Not quite.

"I think I may know how to make you not sad."

A/N: Thoughts, please.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Screw it. I'm going to have some type of music dedicated to each chapter. This time? Cloud Cult. Gaah. So GOOD. Also: there's a bit of a Kurt Vonnegut/Slaughter-House Five reference in here. If you can catch it, I'll be completely blown out of the water by your amazing…ness. I'm going for kind of a choppy-almost-but-not-really-descriptive feel here. Let me know how I do.

_A grin twitches the corner of his mouth as he reaches up a hand, nearly touching her. Not quite._

_"I think I may know how to make you not sad."_

Mae watches him.

"How?"

Just before brushing his fingertips along the scar he created, a blur occurs and directly after it, in his other hand, he holds two black rubber boots.

Mae's Wellingtons. The ones she discarded the last time she visited the Poppy Warriors.

"I will give these back to you for free."

"What? How did you-" she snorts. "Never mind," she grumbles, snatching the footwear out of his grasp.

"Are you happy now?"

Mae watches him carefully.

"Yes, Azreal. I'm very happy."

"Well, alright then."

Even after he disappears, Mae has trouble sleeping that night.

XXX

Trotting into the kitchen the next morning, Wes is nowhere to be found. Mae frowns and scratches her head.

"Wes?"

"Down here!" comes a voice from down there.

"Why are you in the club?" she calls as she begins the descent down the stairs.

"Because nobody ever orders food down here, and it's got kick-butt stoves."

"So?"

"So, I'm making breakfast, dummy."

"Oh." She emerges onto a strange scene. There's this thing about night clubs. Mostly, they're meant to be seen at night. Which makes a night club lit by the sometimes-graceless light of the day a bit awkward.

Wes, in plaid pajama pants and a white shirt, is standing in front of an electric stove with a frying pan. Frying pans, incidentally, make very good weapons. In case you were curious, my friend.

"What time is it?" She yawns.

"Five in the morning."

"What?!"

She nearly thwacks him on the arm, but instead hobbles over to a couch and falls onto it, face-first, one arm trailing on the floor.

"Don't friggin' wake me up until it's at least six."

"You're just going to sleep on the couch?"

"Shut up!" She almost roars.

Wes raises a single eyebrow. "Well, eggs when you want 'em."

She raises her head. "Eggs?"

Wes's scrambled eggs are Mae's weakness. No, I mean she really, _really_ likes the way he makes scrambled eggs, which is no way in particular. He just…fries them. That's all.

It is probably because Mae tends to burn things when she cooks them herself.

Well, it's not as if anyone ever taught her how to cook.

Personally, I make killer scrambled eggs (you can interpret that how you wish), but no one really asked me, did you?

Wes grins. "Eggs. As many as you want."

"Mm…" she thinks about it. "Wake me up in…half an hour."

"How?"

"What?"

"How should I wake you up?"

"Will I regret saying 'I don't care'?"

"I don't know yet."

"Surprise me, then."

XXX

Wes sighs. Half an hour seemed to pass excruciatingly quickly. Surprise me? What? What does that even…_mean_? Can he surprise her with a kiss? That would be surprising, to say the least, would it not?

Wes sighs. No, no. He is a good friend.

He has an epiphany.

Moments later, 'Fairytale' is being forcibly…well, forced out of the surround-sound speakers, giving Mae a rude awakening, but not quite so rude as some other possible options.

"Cloud Cult? This early in the morning?"

Wes shrugs. Where he is, behind the stage, his face is lit by the tiny fluorescent buttons. Mae thinks he is pretty. She thinks this a lot.

She sees a glass of water, left by a late-to-leave patron last night.

The water is dead. Little bubbles of air cling to the sides, trying to escape. So it goes.

She blinks to eliminate resident sleep in her eyes, sliding off the couch slowly. The grainy texture of the furniture grates on her back, serving to a degree to help wake her up.

"Here you go," he says, sliding a plate in front of her before going back to washing dishes and glasses.

Mae takes a few large bites of her food and enjoys it immensely. As she eats, she watches her friend. A blotchy line of soap water marks where he presses up against the sink. His hair, still in little arrows around his head, is wet from taking a shower even earlier that morning.

When she finishes, she brings the dish up to the sink. She places it on the side, on top of the already existent stack, and comes up to Wes from his side. She wraps her arms around him and kisses his shoulder.

"Sorry about last night. I was…weird."

"I expect nothing less from you, kitten."

"Okay, that's a nickname that needs to be culled."

"Aw." Wes smiles and wiggles his arm out of Mae's grasp so that he can put it around her shoulders.

"If you want to use my bathroom for a shower before school, you should probably do it now."

She moans. "I'm not going to school today."

"What? Why not?"

She pauses. "Because…I'm sick." To emphasize just how sick she is, she coughs.

"Come on. Off with ye. Education is important." He shrugs her off his shoulder, still smiling. With the sleep-drunk steps of a zombie, she trudges up the stairs. Each step feels like she's wading through shampoo.

XXX

"You're sure you don't mind giving me a ride?"

"It's not like I have anything to do today besides inventory. And, frankly, I'd prefer to procrastinate for as long as possible for that."

Mae laughs as she clips on her helmet and seats herself behind her friend.

On the motorcycle ride to the school, Wes will accidentally awaken three dogs and one six-month-old baby, all of which rather needed their sleep. Oh, well, nothing to be done about it.

XXX

Mae sighs. She is not looking forward to going to school today. She doesn't feel prepared for the inevitable barrage of questions:

Is that guy your boyfriend?

No?

Is he seeing anyone?

Why did he call you Mae?

Why does he pay attention to you?

Since when did you have really hot friends of the opposite gender?

Since when did you have friends?

She is hoping against hope that she'll be able to hide behind Atul for the remainder of the rumors' circulation, though, inevitably, she will probably end up being choked by at least a couple of them.

"Mary?!"

"Yeah?"

"Oh God, you're alright. I was so worried."

Atul runs up to her, or rather, it is a long-legged stride like a loping giraffe. He looks immensely worried.

"I'm so sorry, Mary, I didn't know he'd found a way out here until he was already out and then I didn't know where he was going, I had no idea-"

"I'm fine."

"But-"

She puts her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look down at her. "Atul. I'm fine. _Fine_. Completely, utterly, and in all other ways-" – inconceivable? – "fine."

He is still breathing hard. His eyes dart all over her face. "Oh. Okay. Oh. Um."

Mae laughs, and heads for her locker, a shell-shocked Atul dawdling numbly behind her. "I just got…worried."

"That's okay. I can see why you would be."

"Did he ever find you?"

Mae considers his question. "Not…exactly. Not in the way that you're talking about."

"What, then?"

She runs her tongue over her teeth, a nervous habit. "It's not important."

Atul suspects she is lying.

Atul suspects right.

"Well, regardless. I, um…"

"What?" Mae turns around, her hair flipping behind her head, to meet his eyes.

"I need you to come over to my house today. To help you. There are some things that might be useful to know about-" he pauses, watches one of the teenage girls walk by a bit too close for comfort, waits until she is out of earshot. "Them. You know."

Mae bites her lip.

"Oh. Okay."

A/N: I'm shameless. How am I shameless, you ask? Well, I'll show you. I just got a FictionPress account (basically the same as FF but for original stuff), and, uhm, I'd like it if anyone were to check out the first chapter of the story I just posted? Please please? Those of you who haven't already, cough. COUGH. You know who you are.


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